Irony

A Story by Karen Scott

The dark side of public health solutions

"Next."

The line shuffled forward. Heads bowed, studiously avoiding eye contact.

"18854?" the lady with the clipboard asked, as though counting too high and trying to remember which number came next.

The shoes in front of her continued shuffling, in assent.

Inside, the aide with the needle jabbed the arm laid before her. With the other hand, she wiped sweat from her brow. Why was it always too hot?

The clinic had long since run out of needles, but nobody came to bring new ones. "i'm not paid to make decisions," she thought, "my job is just to make sure everyone gets a test." So she just kept plugging in the last needle she had, covering up the "18843" as she poked and prodded, vein after vein. It was easy, when nobody wanted to look.

The man known as 18854 was no different. "Why would he do this to me?" he thought, as he stared at the tile-- head equal measures cloudy and on fire.

It had started out so beautifully. That early spring had made the brook muddier than usual, but he hadn't minded. It sure beat trudging through the snows of winter and returning home with numb extremities. He hummed as he collected the water, ready to submit it to usual the battery of tests.

That's when John ambled out. "That's odd," he'd thought, "John should be a mile up-river by now." John was a colleague-- tall, well filled-out. Lines of smiles past-- or was it laughter?-- broke up his otherwise stoic face. They were cordial, but rarely spoke. So he was surprised when John struck up conversation. "Battle Hymn of the Republic? Haven't heard that one in a while."

He had chuckled in response. "My grandmother used to sing it-- she memorized all the songs written by women. We thought she was crazy but... this one sticks in my head from time to time." John had nodded, knowingly. As if his grandmother was the same.

John had kept up the conversation, babbling along with the stream, among the tall, evergreen trees. And just when it seemed like the conversation had nowhere else to turn, John had put his hand on his shoulder. In surprise, he'd looked up at John's smile-laughter eyes. Somehow he fell in. John's hands had traveled other places that evening.

The romance flowed rapidly, through the woods and in the dark. They'd never spoken of it, preferring to let it run its course.

And run its course, it had. He recalled finding John's body, covered in flies and sweat. His eyes had quickly picked up the glint of the needle. And he'd known. He should have known all along-- John was one of them. John had been caught up in another world, a parallel universe that he couldn't see. He infused his blood with metal and drugs, drawing him farther and farther out of the natural beauty of the woods, into a synthesized happiness. Isn't that where everyone was going these days? He'd bellowed in despair-- the loudest noise he'd ever made in his life. For a moment, startled by his own power, he forgot to be angry. And then, he'd wept.

He'd wept for John, at first. Then, he'd wept for the state of the world that had brought him to this. A world where plastics, metals, and manufactured materials had overtaken what was real. Had built on top of the foundations of earth without seeking to preserve what existed at the root. Had swept away battalions of men (and they were mostly men) who didn't even recognize the enemy. Hell, they'd built, paid for, and scaled the enemy beyond what they had even imagined.

And finally, he'd wept for himself. A lone wolf, in the woods, clinging to the lifeblood of the Earth. Water was the only thing that could not be synthesized-- and his job was to protect it from the dangers of man. But now, his fellow protector was as corrupted as the rest of them! And he knew what he'd exposed himself to.

So the man found himself at this concrete clinic, where everyone pretended they were somewhere else. He obediently shuffled in, following the sheep. And he got his AIDS test.

"All set," the aide sighed, interrupting the man's train of thought. He left, passing by the shoes of 18855 on his way out.

As the two men passed each other, the aide efficiently swapped out the vial, covered the needle number, and looked up. "You ready?"

She jabbed the next arm. And repeat. And repeat.

Two days later, the man checked his result. "Contaminated," it said. He'd known all along.